


The Hunt

by beetlejoos



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Malcolm Bright, Canon Typical Danger, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlejoos/pseuds/beetlejoos
Summary: Malcolm Bright is the best at what he does, but right now he can’t afford to make a single mistake. Because the chase is on to catch a pair of killers… and the case just got personal.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 82





	The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This is about double the length of my other one shots, so you might want to make a cup of tea before reading 😌
> 
> Comments always welcome; hope you enjoy! 💜

The maid looks up at them. Her eyes are hard, glinting with satisfaction and Malcolm _hates_ her.

“I don’t know,” she repeats smugly. She sits back, resting her cuffed hands on the grand desk in the study that’s currently serving as their makeshift interrogation room. “Whatever you think may have happened to this officer of yours… I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“ _Lieutenant,_ ” says JT, through gritted teeth. “It’s _Lieutenant_ Arroyo of Major Crimes and his last known whereabouts were _this address_.”

The maid lets her eyes drift from JT, to Dani, to Malcolm, savouring their looks of contained fury. “So you say… but he doesn’t seem to be here.”

 _She’s enjoying this,_ Malcolm thinks. The knowledge should - and does - infuriate him, but strangely enough, it’s helping him as well. The rage he feels is supplanting the anxiety that’s been clawing at him and transforming it into something else; sharpening his mind, speeding up his thoughts. He stands behind Dani and JT and soaks up every tic and tell and word that comes out of her mouth… because he knows that _somehow_ this merciless, ice-cold excuse for a human being is going to give him what they need. He believes it with the absolute confidence that comes from refusing to contemplate any other option.

“You _sure_ you don’t have anything else you wanna tell us?” asks Dani. “You really wanna go down to protect your employer? Because I’m pretty sure when the time comes, they’re gonna be able to afford some pretty good lawyers.” She nods at the richly-appointed room around them, all leather and antique wood, dripping with old money. “You… not so much.” There’s the slightest twitch of of an eyelid - a fleeting doubt, quickly wrestled down - before the maid shrugs. She’s trying to broadcast a cool indifference and the best hope Malcolm has right now is that it isn’t entirely convincing.

Although she’s putting on a better show of it than the three of them, it has to be said.

“You’ve worked for the Waverley family for _twenty four years_ ,” snaps JT and in her eyes Malcolm sees _pride, defiance, satisfaction._ “You expect us to believe that you didn’t know what was going on in this house? That you’ve never set foot in that basement?”

“Mr Waverley and his brother can entertain whatever guests they like, in whatever way they like,” she says slyly. “It’s not my place to make a judgement.”

Dani turns away in frustration at the same moment JT growls out “ _Guests?!”_ and a pathway unrolls in Malcolm’s mind. She’s practically _gloating_ in her complicity, and that’s all he needs: fear isn’t the way, remorse isn’t the way, but this, _this_ _he can use -_

“I bet you knew all about your employers’ _guests_ , didn’t you?” he says. “They trusted you. Only you. You were the only one, outside of the family, who knew what they were doing.”

She doesn’t confirm it. She doesn’t deny it either. The tension that’s been at the back of her gaze since Dani mentioned the lawyers drains away; she’s gratified by his words. “You smoothed things over as well sometimes, I imagine?” Malcolm continues gently. “Got rid of any rogue evidence that might have caused problems for the family. And the guests… you took care of them too, didn’t you? Until the Waverley brothers were ready for them.” She doesn’t break his gaze… because he’s _right_ : part of her wants recognition for it, for her role in all this horror. Despite what it will cost her, she can’t bear to be left out… to be just the servant after all, her special place in the family lost. She licks her lips before she finally answers.

“It’s my job to look after any company Mr Waverley and his brother invite into this house,” she says carefully. “I prepare their accommodation. Their meals. That’s part of the job description.”

“Accommodation,” echoes Dani incredulously and Malcolm knows she’s picturing what they found, down in the basement.

The wire mesh cage. The dog bowl, half full of water. The bloody chain.

“I thought so,” nods Malcolm. “You take care of everything that happens in this house, I bet… but the Waverleys don’t kill them in the basement, do they? We’ve seen it. And we’ve seen the bodies. There’s no sign of blood down there; no sign of the murder weapons. The basement is where they keep them while they’re alive and then… they take them somewhere else.”

She doesn’t react. Her controlled stillness is all the confirmation he needs… but it’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough when they have _no idea_ where the second site might be. “What that means is that Lieutenant Arroyo may still be alive. And that _you_ have a chance to make things a little better for your employers. You’ve always taken care of them… this is your last chance to help them now. By helping us, before it’s too late.”

Her eyes stay on his face. Her expression stays the same, impassive, unmoved, and he pushes down the frustration rising in his chest, threatening to burst out of his mouth in a furious torrent. “Why _do_ they move them, before they kill them?” he presses instead. “Do you know where your employers take them? Or is that somewhere private… somewhere that’s _just_ for family?” Her anger and contempt for him flares in her eyes. She’s too smart to be caught out that way, he knows that, but his every sense is on high alert for some sign, some clue she won’t even realise she’s given them that will change _everything…_

But after a long moment, she just settles back in her chair. “I’m sorry that I can’t help you find your Lieutenant,” she murmurs. “Are you sure it was him you spoke to last night?”

“He called me from _this house_ ,” says Malcolm tightly, reminding himself that _he’s_ the one orchestrating this: he’s playing her, she’s _not_ playing him _._ “He identified himself as being on the premises, on a call logged at 10:15pm.”

She tuts. “That’s, what… almost five hours ago? Anything could have happened since then.” Her eyes flick, just for a second, to the sweeping bay windows. The sky is black as pitch beyond. “Something bad must have happened to him… _after_ he left this house, of course.” Her eyes come back to meet his face, dark with amusement, cold as winter frost. “Such a shame. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were already too late.”

***

They leave her there, under guard, spilling back out into the imposing foyer. The vaulted stone ceiling rears up over their heads, cops and CSIs scurrying back and forth below like ants over a picnic. As soon as they’re a safe distance from the study JT wheels round, his voice taut with frustration. “We need to figure out the second location. There’s gotta be something in this house that points to it. Paperwork, keys, receipts -"

“That’s not how we’re gonna find him,” Malcolm cuts in. “We’re missing something. One of our assumptions is wrong. I can _feel_ it.”

“Wrong how?” demands Dani. He knows she’s not doubting him and that does something to calm the tension he can feel in every muscle of his body, but he also knows that it doesn’t matter if she believes him or not, if he can’t translate his feeling into something _useful_.

“The maid,” he says. “When I said there was a second location, she was… I don’t know, pleased. _Smug._ Like we were on the wrong track.”

“So what are you saying? You think Gil might still be here somewhere?”

“Like those tunnels under your house?” JT glances at Dani, sudden hope in his eyes. “That’s a rich people thing, right - secret rooms, hidden corridors -”

“No,” says Malcolm and JT deflates. “Her eyes went to the window. Unconsciously, she was looking towards her employers. They’re not in the house.”

“Then what?” demands Dani. “What have we got wrong here, Bright?”

“It’s… none of this second site stuff _makes sense_ ,” he insists. “The Waverley brothers have the _perfect_ murder house. There’s literally no one for miles in any direction. No one to overhear, no neighbours to worry about. But they move the victims somewhere else to do the actual killing… which means the move isn’t about practicality, it’s about _need_. Something about that ritual fulfils some deep-seated need for the brothers. We’re not gonna find the location from some stray piece of paper that’s lying around. We’re gonna find it by understanding the Waverleys.”

“And?” Dani stares at him impatiently. “Do you? Understand them?” He bites his lip.

“I… ” Malcolm squeezes his eyes closed, the facts of the case flashing through his mind at lightning speed.“No,” he whispers finally, defeated, “not yet,” and Dani looks away, disappointment and frustration rippling over her face. “But we shouldn’t be wasting time poring over paperwork. We need to focus on the brothers, the basement - anything we can find that tells us about their behaviour towards the victims.” JT pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath before he starts again.

“Ok. What do we _know_? Gil turned up at the house. He figures out something’s funky, he calls Bright. The Waverley brothers attack him, but they know he’s a cop, they know they don’t have much time before more show up. So they don’t put him in the basement where the other victims were held.”

“Right,” says Dani, “but they also don’t kill him right away and try and cover it up. Is it possible they’ve made a run for it? With Gil as a hostage or some kind of bargaining chip?”

“No,” says Malcolm, “they want to get in one last bite of the apple before it’s over for them. One final kill. Which means they’ll have to carry out an accelerated version of their usual ritual, whatever that is - but they’ll be clinging to that ritual nonetheless.” He’s sure of that, at least… which means _they’re running out of time to save Gil -_

He slams down on the thought like a linebacker. Sticking to their usual pattern makes the Waverleys predictable, he tells himself. It means he has all the information he needs to find them… if he can just figure things out fast enough…

“Detectives?” The lead CSI - a guy called Jackson - emerges from the back of the house and Malcolm wishes again that they had Edrisa out here with them. It’s hard to trust outsiders when it’s Gil’s life on the line. “This way. There’s something I need to show you.”

***

They follow Jackson through the carpeted hallways as the man rattles off his findings. “Looks like your first guess was right. The victims were held in the basement but there’s minimal blood spatter and no signs of a clean up. To be frank, there’s no signs of _any_ cleaning having been done down there for God knows how long. I’d say it’s a safe bet that wherever they were killed and the bodies dismembered, it wasn’t in this house.”

They found the arm of one of the victims, the foot of another. Two different missing persons suddenly united as part of the same case; their remains discovered floating in the same river. From then on, the evidence had formed a clear trail that led them out here. Six missing people over the course of the last two years, all New York residents. The clearest common link was a private club in the city - one vic had been a member, another had visited as a guest, a third had worked there as a waitress. They’d all travelled out to an area of remote countryside in upstate New York and none of them had been heard from again. Given the number of grand estates out here, with owners and staff and friends and relatives all of whom could likely be tied in some way to a private members’ club in the city, being out in the middle of nowhere hadn’t really whittled down their suspect pool as much as they could have hoped.

 _On the bright side_ , Gil had said to him, as they’d pulled onto the freeway, _you can get some country air, city boy._

Jackson leads them down a stairwell and then they're outside. The worst of the storm has passed now, but the night air is frigid, misting their faces with rain the second they leave the safety of the building. Malcom can glimpse stables ahead and on their right, an absurdly spacious set of kennels for the single sleeping Alsatian inside. The narrow, cramped cage Malcolm saw down in the basement flickers in his mind and he swallows back a swell of rage. At least Gil’s been spared that indignity.

Jackson is still talking: “…we found personal effects belonging to the victims in a safe. Just one item each, so far as we can tell.”

“Trophies,” Malcolm mutters. “They took trophies.” He swallows. “Was there anything of Lieutenant Arroyo’s in with them?”

“We found his wallet, his gun and a broken phone we’ve assumed is his, but they weren’t in the safe.” Malcolm exhales shakily. In the corner of his eye, he can see JT and Dani reacting to his relief, trusting his reading of the situation. “And…” Jackson leads them through the door of a small stone building, barely bigger than a shed. There’s straw on the floor, practical wet weather gear hanging off an iron hook on the wall. “I was hoping you’d be able to confirm if these belong to the Lieutenant?”

In the middle of the room, Gil’s coat is currently being examined by the careful, gloved hands of a technician. His sweater’s been tossed on the floor in the far corner, bundled next to his belt and one of his shoes. Malcolm has the curious sensation of suddenly being outside his own body, watching this all play out from some distant, high corner. He’s dimly aware of JT, cursing under his breath.

“They took his clothes?” Dani’s voice is flat, controlled, but there’s still no mistaking that if the answer is _yes_ she’s about three seconds away from breaking something.

“These are the only garments we’ve found,” Jackson says, as reassuring as he can manage. “Seems like they left him with the rest.” JT bites his lip, clearly trying - as they all are - to work out the logic of whatever the hell happened here.

“You think these are more trophies?” Malcolm shakes his head.

“No. A trophy would be taken after death, as a symbol of a successful kill, and kept in a special place. It’s a good sign that there was nothing of Gil’s in that safe. It more or less confirms he left this house alive.” He rubs his forehead, trying to force back the pounding headache that’s taking up residence behind his eyes. _You're not talking about Gil_ , he tells himself. _Pretend_ _you’re talking about a nameless hostage; a John Doe._ “Taking his clothes could be about… intimidation, power, discomfort. It’s a cold night and the Waverleys clearly aren’t worried about their prisoners being comfortable. Removal of the shoes could be about respect for the space they’re taking him to… or it could be about humbling him…”

“It’s actually just the one shoe,” chips in Jackson. “We haven’t recovered the other one.”

JT double-takes. “They took _one_ shoe?” Jackson shrugs, equally bemused. “The hell?”

“It’s definitely gone? It didn’t… roll behind a hay bale, or something?” asks Dani. She says something else, but Malcolm doesn’t hear her as the _feeling_ in his gut is transmuted into a cold, concrete _knowledge_ in the space between one heartbeat and the next. The picture swims into place in high definition inside his head, pulling blurry outlines into sharp focus.

He can hear his pulse, thumping loudly in his ears. _The kennels,_ he realises. _So big. So empty._

“… one shoe have some kind of weird symbolic meaning? Bright? _Bright?”_

“It’s not a symbol,” he whispers, “it’s for the dogs. For the scent. They don’t take the victims to a second site… they _let them run_.” He meets their eyes again with a look of pure horror. “It’s a hunt.”

***

The aerial maps have already been pulled up on the screen by the time they make it back upstairs and they fall upon the laptop. Malcolm’s heart sinks as he sees the photographs. He knew the house was remote - the drive here through the near-pitch blackness for what felt like hours had confirmed that - but on the map it’s practically a dot, lost in a sea of green, woods and hills and streams surrounding it on all sides for miles and miles. JT swears in frustration. “If you’re right about this, he could be _anywhere._ We have no idea when he set out… how far they are behind him…”

“They will have given him a head start,” says Malcolm, his eyes scanning the map frantically. “They’d want to make a game of it… give the victims enough time to cover a proper distance.” _This isn’t going to tell them anything_ , he realises - because they’re not trying to predict the Waverley brothers’ movements anymore, they’re trying to predict _Gil’s_ \- and Gil didn’t have access to a map, he didn’t have his phone, he approached the building at night…

He runs back out of the room, dodging past the milling police officers still in the foyer, out of the huge oak double doors at the front of the house. He jogs halfway down the stone steps towards the gravel courtyard below, silvery in the moonlight, and turns to look back up at the house. It sweeps up above him, the only glowing thing in the whole dark night, majestic and weathered and _massive_ against the starry sky.

Two silhouettes appear in the doorway. “Bright?”

“They would have let him go from here,” calls Malcolm, thinking aloud, and JT frowns instinctively.

“Back exit would be safer. More low key.”

“There’s no one out here to witness anything… and low key isn’t what they were going for. They’d have wanted him to look back up at the house… a symbol, of their wealth and power. And they’d have wanted to be looking down at him, when he started to run.” His synapses are firing now; thoughts chasing themselves through his mind one after the other with growing certainty. “Then they’d have gone back inside to wait. Let him cover some real ground; start believing he might have a hope in hell of actually getting away, and then…” He trails off, swallowing at the realisation. “They’d let him run for hours. We probably just missed them. Do we know about a vehicle?”

“There’s a jeep, registered to the older brother. No sign of it on the grounds.” Malcolm nods.

“Then that's where they kill them. Where the weapons are. We might not be able to spot Gil… but we might have a chance of spotting the car, if we can narrow the search radius.”

Dani joins him on the step and Malcolm flinches - he hadn’t even noticed her walking down towards him. “You sure about this, Bright?”

“Yes,” he says, and as he says it he realises he is, as close to certain as he can possibly be. There’s a relief in it, even though the full picture of what’s happening to Gil _right now_ , of how urgent the situation is, makes his heart race. She lets out a breath and nods.

“We need to send out search parties. Local police could lend us their chopper… but -"

“If they know we’re onto them, they’ll probably kill him on sight,” JT growls, completing the thought. Malcolm nods.

“They’ll want to draw this out. They won’t shoot him unless they feel they have to… they’ll want to get close.” He jogs to the bottom of the steps and looks out into the quiet, starlit night, and for a second forces himself to empty his mind of all thoughts of the Waverley brothers. They’re not whose head he needs to get inside right now.

_Which way would Gil have gone?_

Gil’s smart and tough, he knows that; in a different setting, he’d put money on his boss outsmarting a pair like the Waverleys, no matter how bloodthirsty and dangerous they’ve proven themselves to be. But like this… out here…

He tries to remember if he’s ever seen Gil somewhere greener than Central Park and draws a blank. Gil’s a _city_ guy, through and through; he’d be completely out of his element somewhere like this, and that’s before Malcolm factors in the storm that’s been raging half the night, the cold, the darkness, the fact he might well be concussed or injured…

 _Focus._ He sweeps the darkness again. To the right the ground slopes downward rather than up - that would feel like the easiest path to someone already hurt and exhausted. Straight ahead is a crop of woodland - strategically, that would provide the best cover in the short term. And to the left…

“That way,” he says. “Gil would have run that way. You can just make the light pollution from the town. He would have headed towards the lights. Familiar ground. Civilisation.”

“That’s a hell of a stab in the dark,” mutters JT doubtfully.

“I know,” admits Malcolm. “We should send out as many teams as we can, in as many directions as possible - but that’s where I’d start.”

Dani pulls her keys from her pocket and tosses them to JT. “Then let’s go.”

***

The car speeds along through the blue-black night. A freezing wind is still gusting outside but inside the vehicle there’s only the low purr of the engine, the sound of Dani checking her gun, and Peters - the local officer who offered to join them - checking through his kit. There are more cars heading out from the house, a starburst spreading out into the surrounding countryside, while inside more officers are making calculations about the minimum and maximum boundaries of their search radius.

Malcolm sits, staring out at the darkness streaking past, and replays the message over and over in his mind. The way Gil’s voice - low and tense - had suddenly choked off into silence, the abrupt way the call had cut out. _10:15pm…_ only the storm had played havoc with the cell reception out here and it had been closer to midnight when his phone had finally registered the new voicemail. He’d checked two more house calls off his list and headed back to the hotel, had a hot shower, looked over his notes and only _then_ seen the blinking icon on his phone-screen.

Almost two hours, for the message to get through. Another hour for him to notice; another hour for them to reach the house. Gil had called _him_ for back up and no one had come; no one had even known there was something wrong until it was too late.

He’s _so angry_. All his fear is slowly curdling into a white-hot, laser-pointed fury and his hands clench into fists in his lap. Back there, in the house, searching for a path to follow, the tension boiling up inside him had felt like a distraction - like it was going to shake him apart. _Now_ it feels like momentum, propelling him along as surely as the wheels below them… because he _knows_ in his gut he’s right about this; he _sees_ the brothers now, he _sees_ what’s happened here and the only question left to answer is whether or not they’re _too late…_

JT’s eyes flick to the sat nav screen. “We’re approaching maximum distance,” he murmurs. If they drive much further, they’ll have passed beyond the amount of ground Gil could have plausibly covered in the number of hours he’s been missing. Malcolm sees the look in Dani’s eyes and pushes down his own doubts. _It doesn’t mean he’s wrong, and it doesn’t mean they’re too late._ If anyone would make the Waverleys work hard to catch them, it would be Gil.

The night rushes past them, with no sign of car lights, no flashlights, not a flicker of movement that any of them can see from the windows. After another minute, JT looks up and meets Malcolm’s gaze heavily via the mirror. “Look… maybe we should -"

The blast of a shotgun rings out ahead of them. Malcolm’s heart slams in his chest. “That way, _that way!_ ” shouts Dani, and JT wrenches the wheel, slamming his foot down as they race and bounce over the uneven terrain, down the dip of a hill as another blast rings out —

“There!” hisses JT, at the same moment that Malcolm becomes aware of the sound of dogs, barking and snarling, and the movement of a flashlight shines out of the darkness. The car screeches to a halt and he’s out the door almost before it’s come to a stop, just in time to hearanother deafening blast - aimed _toward_ them this time, and something whistles over his head so close that he feels it ruffling his hair.

“Down!” He drops, cursing for the thousandth time the fact that consultants apparently don’t get a firearm, as another bullet punches into the front of the car, smashing the front window into a spiderweb of fractured glass. He hears JT swearing, but none of them have any idea what’s out in the darkness; they can’t risk firing indiscriminately ahead of them in case they hit Gil. Malcolm crawls forward, peering out from round the front tyre just in time to see a dark figure raising the shotgun again —

“Eleven o’clock!” he yells to Dani and she uncurls in one fluid movement and fires. The figure goes down with a roar of pain and Malcolm’s up and running, the others hot on his heels. He hears JT’s warning shout - _because there’s_ _two_ _of them_ , he suddenly remembers _-_ and a hand grabs him, yanking him back as Dani cuffs the man on the ground and JT’s flashlight reveals the Waverleys’ jeep, doors hanging open, parked in the distance. The cacophony of barking is coming from within.

JT edges closer, gun drawn. In the darkness it’s impossible to see if there’s anyone else behind the wheel… it would be impossible to hear a gun being loaded, over the sound of the dogs….

“Here!” JT’s flashlight falls on a figure, face down in the mud. Malcolm feels his insides give a horrifying lurch for what must be the tenth time this evening… _but it’s not Gil_ , it’s the younger brother, unconscious, a bloody gash at his temple. JT checks his pulse before he cuffs him and Malcolm’s already sweeping the ground, calling out Gil’s name, but _there’s no sign of him,_ and with a jolt of raw horror he’s running to the back of the jeep, where the sound of snarling and snapping is reaching a frenzied crescendo…

He shines his flashlight through the back windows, illuminating the curved backs and crouching legs of three huge Alsatians, pawing and fighting over…

The missing shoe. There’s no body, no sign of Gil in the back. Malcolm steadies himself against the vehicle, faint with relief - when a shape slams against the doors and he stumbles back in shock. The dog bares its teeth, growling out at him from behind glass, and even in the dim light the shine of red smeared over its muzzle is unmistakeable.

 _No…_ if they’d killed him there’d be a body, _there’s_ _no_ _body_ _…_

“Bright!”

It’s Dani’s voice. He forces himself to tear his gaze away from those narrowed, gleaming eyes, the flashing teeth… back to the front of the vehicle, where Dani’s flashlight throws up a corresponding gleam from the wet earth below. Behind her, JT and the local officer are wrestling the older brother into the back of the shot up police car. The man is bleeding from the neat little hole in his shoulder, spitting out threats and demanding medical attention, and Malcolm has _never cared less_ , has never felt _less_ curiosity about coming face to face with a killer he’s been chasing. He hurries to Dani’s side instead. “Here,” she mutters in a low voice and Malcolm’s eyes scan the ground…

Gil’s badge winks up at them from the mud and the word _trophy_ whispers through his mind _._ All around are the clear signs of a scuffle: paw-prints and bootprints and torn up chunks of earth. A coil of rope, half unspooled, and a muddy ( _thank god not bloody_ ) blade are scattered closer to the jeep, near where they found the unconscious younger brother. Malcolm forces himself to breathe, to read the picture that’s been painted on the ground.

“He got away,” murmurs Dani, and there’s a fierce pride in her voice underneath the fear. Malcolm circles the patch of earth, sweeping back and forth with his own flashlight as JT hurries back over to them.

“They caught him…” and Malcolm can practically _see it_ unfolding, every mark of the struggle written out for them in the mud. “Brought him back to the jeep, but then…. he got the better of them. He knocked out the first brother and ran… and the second brother…”

“Went for the shotgun,” finishes JT, his eyes wide. They all turn instinctively in the direction the man was firing when they crested the hill. Malcolm rushes forward and shines his flashlight down the slope, two more beams joining his a second later…

No body. Dani practically doubles over beside him, hands on her knees. JT steps forward and, using all the power of his lungs, shouts out _“Gil! GIL!!_ ” - but over the yapping of the dogs and the babble of the stream they can make out sparkling at the bottom of the slope, they all know it’s not loud enough. JT rubs his forehead in frustration. “This is where I wish we’d brought a car with a siren,” he mutters.

“We have to go after him,” says Malcolm, unable to stop the panic from creeping into his voice. “If we let him get away and he’s injured, we might not find him in time -”

“He can’t have gotten far,” says Dani firmly. “We can't get a vehicle over the water… so we split up, keep in radio contact. Peters can stay here with the prisoners.”

“If you need to find him fast…” It’s Peters himself, leaning against the side of the car with the two brothers now safely cuffed inside, “you could always take one of the dogs.”

“ _No_ ,” says Malcolm, horrified by the suggestion, “he’s been _hunted_ for the last five hours! The second he hears them barking, he’s going to run even faster.” The guy offers an apologetic little half-shrug.

“Just saying, it’d be quick. How fast is he really gonna be running, at this point?” Dani glares at him.

“ _No dogs_ ,” she snaps. “Let’s move.”

***

Ten minutes later and when Malcolm glances behind, he can’t see JT and Dani’s flashlights, or the glow of the parked car. They’ve all been swallowed up by the night. A faint glow is starting to tinge the horizon - _thank god_ \- because finding Gil _on foot_ when he could be slowly bleeding out or riddled with bullets is going to be hard enough without doing it in total darkness.

Malcolm hunches against the wind and hurries along the side of the stream, sweeping the banks with the light and stopping every twenty metres or so to shout Gil’s name. He’s gone downstream; JT’s gone up. The smartest move to lose the dogs would have been to move through the water (the _freezing, ice cold_ water)… but given Gil was being _shot at_ at the time, he might well have simply run for the horizon. With that in mind, Dani’s crossed the stream and is heading out in a roughly straight line from where they set off.

Peters has stayed with the Waverleys, calling for medical and vehicles with sirens, megaphones, searchlights - whatever the hell they can use to try and help the situation - but right now it’s just the three of them picking a direction and praying. And all the while, Malcolm knows there’s only two possible scenarios: either Gil’s too hurt to keep running and has collapsed somewhere in the dark… or he’s running as fast as he can, away from any chance of help.

“GIL!” he screams for the tenth time. The wind seems even louder where he is now, or maybe it’s the stream flowing wider and faster the further he goes.... because he’s pretty sure there’s no way Gil’s going to hear him like this unless the man’s a couple of feet away. But at least the moon is still shining, tracing the outline of the hills and woods around him, picking out flecks of silver in the babbling stream….

 _There._ The river bank has been disturbed - he shines his flashlight and sees the flattened grass, the marks in mud leading up the slope to disappear into a copse of thick, close-set trees. Malcolm’s splashing through the stream in a second, ignoring the icy stab of water. The trail would be hard to miss, but he can hardly fault the man for not taking the time to try and cover his tracks. “Gil!”

He scrambles up the bank, up the steep, wet slant of grass, into the shadows of the tall trees. It’s a little more sheltered up here; the wind is quieter, and he stands for a moment, catching his breath, casting over the ground for more signs as to which direction to follow. With a flashlight, it’s easy to pick out the tracks through the leaves and he hurries forward. _How much further until he catches up with him?_ Sheer determination must be propelling Gil along at this point, the instinct to survive over-riding everything else. Because he’s already been running for _hours,_ injured, frozen, exhausted… he’d have no chance of outpacing the brother he left behind over any real distance…

 _Gil would_ _know_ _that, though_ , whispers the little voice in his mind - the voice that’s been profiling his mentor alongside the murderous Waverleys ever since the pieces first fell into place. His breath huffs out in icy clouds in front of him, the weathered tree trunks looming out of the dark as he moves. _Gil’s already made it this far, all on his own. Even terrified, even fleeing for his life, Gil would be smart. Strategic. Patient…_

A weight slams into his middle, tackling him before he’s even registered the rustle of movement and Malcolm hits the ground, breath knocked out of him, flashlight falling from his numb fingers. He _senses_ rather than sees the movement above him, the figure lunging forward and he just manages to whip to the side in time to miss something smashing into the earth where his head was a second earlier. “ _Wait!_ ” he gasps desperately, “no Gil _stop!_ ” The shape rears back over him and he raises one arm defensively over his face but keeps the other still where it’s flung out on the ground, resisting every instinct to _fight back_ \- _he can’t be a threat,_ because before words, before logic, he knows _that’s_ what will register above everything else. He forces himself as still as he can, bracing for the blow…

It doesn’t come. He can hear the other man’s breathing, ragged and harsh; he hasn’t moved from where he’s knelt over him. Malcolm lowers his arm hesitantly, squinting upwards, but he’s blinded - the beam of the flashlight shining into his eyes where it’s come to a stop on the wet earth. “Gil…?” After another moment of no answer, no movement from the man above, he risks fumbling for the flashlight, tilting it off to the side so that he’s no longer dazzled and he can finally _see_ …

Gil. He’s staring down at Malcolm like he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing; like he’s been wrenched from one reality into another in the space of a heartbeat and still hasn’t caught up to where he is. His chest is heaving but the rest of him seems frozen; his hands, bound in front of him, still half-raised to strike. “What…” he whispers finally, and his voice is so hoarse Malcolm wouldn’t be able to make it out if he wasn’t practically underneath him. “… Kid?”

“Yeah, Gil. It’s me.”

Gil doesn’t move. He looks stunned, so Malcolm keeps talking, moving gingerly into a sitting position - anything to get that unbearably _lost_ expression off his face. “We got them - the Waverleys. This is over, you’re safe. They’re in custody.”

There’s a rock, Malcolm can see now, clutched in his hands. It drops to the ground as Gil takes a strangled-sounding breath, collapsing in on himself and Malcolm’s moving before he can think about it, a clumsy lunge that’s half a catch and half a hug. Gil makes a choked noise against him and suddenly Malcolm’s own throat feels tight as he grips him harder. “It’s ok, it’s over,” he says again, and his voice breaks at the flood of relief that’s hitting him like a gut punch, because _they made it, they found him, he’s_ _alive_ _..._

Gil feels like ice; he’s shaking, either from cold or the shock of the last few seconds. Malcolm knows he should be getting the team on the radio, should be assessing him for injuries, but for a minute he can’t seem to make himself do anything but hold on for dear life. “Are you hurt?” he manages, and it comes out more like a sob. He forces himself to pull back so he can see him properly. “Gil, are you hurt? There’s an ambulance coming, it won’t be long…”

“Oh… _Jesus_.” Gil screws his eyes closed, desperately trying to get a grip on himself. “Jesus, Malcolm… I could’ve…”

“I’m fine,” says Malcolm hurriedly. “Are you hit? We heard the gun -” he scans over the other man, but it would be almost impossible to spot blood on his drenched clothing in the darkness. “Gil, please _…_ ” Maybe the panic in his voice punches through, because Gil draws in a steadying breath andshakes his head.

“No. No, I’m ok, kid,” he mutters, “he missed the shot,” and Malcolm can breathe a little easier.

“Did they hurt you? Are you injured?” He can just make out a vicious-looking cut and bruise on Gil’s temple and he has to resist the urge to use the flashlight to look him over properly. Gil probably won’t appreciate being dazzled and studied right now, especially not after hours in darkness.

“Just my head and uh… my arm.” Malcolm’s leaning forward immediately, and sure enough Gil’s shirt is half-shredded on his upper arm. Malcolm’s mind flashes back to the bloody muzzle of the dog in the car and he reaches out carefully, nudging the cloth aside to reveal the deep bite-mark sunk into the meat of his arm, angry gouges that are still bleeding sluggishly. He tears a strip from the bottom of his shirt and starts to bandage it up.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, because even being gentle as he can, it’s got to hurt like hell - but Gil just frowns, watching as he ties the shirt tight.

“S’ok. Doesn't actually feel that bad.”

Right… that’ll be because he’s _frozen._ Gil probably can’t feel much of _anything_ right now, and rather than point out that worrying realisation Malcolm hurriedly pulls off his coat. It’s too small to fit him but he can at least drape it around the other man’s shoulders. He reaches for the radio. “It’s all going to be fine. I’m just gonna let the others know we’re here.”

He listens to JT and Dani’s twin exclamations of relief and starts to fills them in on the relevant details, watching from the corner of his eye as Gil slowly tunes in to their conversation. He’s clearly taking the moment to gather himself and get a better handle on what’s going on, so Malcolm doesn’t rush. He gives JT and Dani a more detailed description of their location than he strictly needs to, letting the logistics of woods and buses and rivers float out through the speaker in a calming wash. By the time they’re done, with Dani promising to update them on the ambulance in the next few minutes, Gil looks far more composed and is watching him with clear eyes as Malcolm sets the radio down between them.

“The paramedics shouldn’t be long. Can I…?” He indicates the bindings on Gil’s wrists. The other man blinks, as if he'd almost forgotten they were there.

“You can try,” he says resignedly, and he lets Malcolm take his hands into his own to study the coarse rope. It’s been tied viciously tight, but sloppily - he suspects Gil made his break for it before they were done, because more than a foot of rope is still trailing loose. The knots are sodden from the river, and Malcolm bites his lip in concentration as he tries to prise one loose.

Gil clears his throat. His voice is very quiet, worn down, as though it’s been put through the wringer like the rest of him. “You got both of ‘em?”

“Yeah. We found their jeep right after you’d gotten away. We heard the gunshots - I don’t know if we’d have found them otherwise, with the dark.”

“You managed to find _me_ in the dark,” observes Gil and Malcolm shakes his head. The knot he’s chosen to focus on is _impossible_ and he switches his attentions to another.

“We should have been here sooner. By the time we got to the house, the brothers had already gone and we didn’t - _I_ didn’t even know where we should start looking -“ his hands slip, numb and clumsy from the cold, and he swears in frustration.

“Kid -"

“I’m so sorry, Gil. _None_ of this should have happened. Your message didn’t come through because of the storm, not for a couple of hours, and then - then when it did, I didn’t even see it right away -”

“ _Bright.”_ His voice is still soft, but Gil has always possessed the ability to cut through the noise. “Hey. This wasn’t your fault. _You_ didn’t get me into this. And somehow you managed to track me down in the middle of… wherever the hell this is. I’m guessing that wasn’t an easy job.” Malcolm swallows, his eyes burning… because Gil shouldn’t be sounding _grateful._ Not after everything that’s happened, and not when it was so close - when a couple of minutes either way could have changed _everything_ …

“How _did_ you find me, anyway?”

Malcolm sniffs. He blinks until the knots have stopped blurring in front of him and gives a small shrug.

“This is the countryside, Gil. You stick out like a sore thumb.”

His huff of laughter makes something loosen in Malcolm’s chest. A moment later and he’s gently tugging his hands out of Malcolm’s grip. “I appreciate you trying kid, but I think this might be a lost cause.” Much as he hates to admit it, Malcolm’s pretty sure he’s right. There’s no way they’re getting the rope off without a knife. He gathers up the loose end and loops it gently around Gil’s forearm a few more times. That way, at least it won’t be trailing from his wrists like a damn leash.

The radio crackles on the ground: “Bright - we can have the medics meet you on your side of the river. They’re gonna park up a few hundred metres north of where you are. If you can make your way up there, they’ll probably be ready to meet you as you arrive… if not, they can have a team over to you a few minutes after.”

“Thanks, Dani.” He turns back to Gil. “Sounds like they won’t be too long.”

“Let’s head up there,” suggests Gil, and Malcolm carefully tries to keep the look of scepticism off his face.

“Are you sure? I know waiting will be a little longer, but…"

“What’s another few hundred metres?” Malcolm gives him a furtive scan. Getting him moving might do something to warm him up of course, but all the same… Gil looks in bad enough shape just sitting on the ground. _He outran two serial killers in a storm,_ he reminds himself: _if he says he can do it, he can do it._ Not to mention that Malcolm’s freezing, and he’s only been out in this for a fraction of the time that Gil has. The sooner he can get him somewhere warm and dry, the better.

“Alright… Do you wanna give it a minute, or -?”

“I wanna get the hell out of here,” he mutters. He glares down at the mess of rope around his wrists and then clumsily starts to rise. Malcolm darts to his side to steady him, shrugging the coat more securely around his shoulders.

“Are you _sure_ you’re ok to walk? How are you feeling?”

“Well, an Alsatian nearly ripped my arm off, I can’t feel my hands and I almost clubbed my own profiler to death with a rock,” says Gil drily, “so I’ve had better days. But yeah - I can _walk_.” He takes a breath. “Come on, let’s go.”

They move slowly. Malcolm keeps one arm around Gil’s shoulders as they go and hovers solicitously when he pauses after the first minute, ignoring the irritated glare he receives in response. Gil’s always hated anyone fussing over him… but the first fingers of daylight are reaching through the trees, illuminating how utterly exhausted the man looks. Malcolm considers insisting that they wait for the medics, but after everything Gil’s done in the last few hours, it feels wrong to suggest he’s incapable of doing something he’s clearly set his mind to. Instead, Malcolm simply attaches himself to his side and says nothing when their pace, already dragging, starts to falter.

Gil looks taken aback by his own weakness when he almost falls the first time. After a couple more minutes he’s leaning heavily against Malcolm, trembling and stumbling over the uneven ground. It’s a relief when a flashlight winks out of the woods ahead of them and JT’s voice echoes from the trees, and a moment later he’s jogging forward to meet them, coming to support Gil on his other side with a brief but heartfelt “s’good to see you, boss.”

The glow of the parked ambulance through the parting in the trees might be the most welcome thing Malcolm’s ever laid eyes on. They usher Gil forwards, past the parked squad cars, as dawn creeps up from the horizon to blend with the starry sky above. Dani is waiting by the back doors of the bus, and Malcolm can see from her body language the exact moment she lays eyes on them. Then Gil’s sitting down on the back-step of the ambulance; someone’s settling a blanket around his shoulders; he’s smiling tiredly at Dani and for the first time since Malcolm entered that godforsaken house - only a few hours ago, when it feels like _days_ \- it feels like he can breathe properly. For a beautiful, blessed moment his brain can just _stop._ He stands there, his team circled around him, the reassuring hum and chatter of the paramedics and officers washing over him like a lullaby.

“ _Bright._ ” He blinks and then frowns at the blanket Dani is holding out to him. “Here.”

“I’m f-“

She shoves it at him before he can finish. “You two are making me cold just looking at you. Take it, ok?”

“- a maximum security facility about an hour’s drive away,” JT is saying to Gil, “they’re both heading straight there.”

“They can throw away the key,” Gil mutters, watching as a paramedic pulls out heat packs and yet more blankets from a compartment.

“I’ll say. The rich ones are always the craziest. No offence,” JT adds, with a glance at Malcolm.

“There must have been sixty addresses on that list as _possible_ leads,” says Dani ruminatively. “What are the odds of you turning up on the actual killers’ doorstep? Seems more like something Bright would do.”

“Hey!”

Dani smirks, ducking aside for the paramedic who’s pointedly shooing them all away as he moves to take Gil’s pulse. “Lieutenant, let’s get you out of those,” a second medic says, materialising beside the first, and a moment later she’s cutting the ropes off Gil’s wrists with ridiculous ease. “And we’re going to need a little more space to work here, please -"

Dani and JT are immediately falling back, calling their goodbyes. “Gil Arroyo is one tough son of a bitch,” JT mutters under his breath as they step away. He resumes normal volume when he adds, “and that was some pretty impressive profiling, dude. Good job.”

“Yeah, nice work, Bright,” says Dani as she passes, bumping his shoulder. Malcolm blinks, but before he can respond they’ve both moved off, heading to the cluster of local officers waiting near a squad car. When he looks back, Gil is watching him, a small smile on his face.

“What?”

Gil shrugs, warmth in his eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Mr Arroyo, you really need to get out of those wet clothes and we need to be getting you over to the ER.” Malcolm steps back obediently as Gil lets the two medics help him up into the ambulance and over to the gurney.

“I’ll ride with the others,” he says, “I can meet you at the hospital.”

“Kid - get some rest.” Gil’s already disappearing from view behind the attentions of the medic, his voice floating out from inside the bus. “Go back to the hotel and get warm, for God’s sake. I’ll be fine.”

“So I’ll see you there,” calls Malcolm as the doors swing closed, unable to stop the smile that’s spreading over his face. The ambulance pulls away with a low purr and he watches it drive off in the dawn light. There’s a warmth in his chest that’s nothing to do with the rising sun as he heads towards the rest of his team, standing by the car, waiting for him to join them.


End file.
